


Emerge from the Shadows

by lechatnoir



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: F/M, Gen, Not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I choose to walk by your side, in this life, or the one that follows"</p><p>In which, parting is such a sweet sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Will Remember Us In Blood

i.  
He remembers the first time he laid his eyes on Naevia – timid, sweet, a delicate flower to the unobservant eye.

She stands strong, a silent guiding light in the despairing darkness as he tosses and turns from the world of the living and that of the dead, sweat beading his forehead as he lapses into a fever dream and thinks of her as a goddess , perhaps that of life, or even death.

He remembers Vesuvius, where she reclaimed her name, Ashur’s blood spilling on the rocks as she turns to him and he holds her close, heart beating rapidly as if it was to burst into a million pieces so that even the gods themselves could not piece it together if anything was to happen to Naevia, now that she is in his arms once more.

(It is the sound of soft breathes and the gate opening, keys clattering to the ground as they seek refuge in the shadows, the ever present smile of whimsy on their faces. 

They never notice the eyes that follow them, red serpents spewing poison everywhere that they looked).

ii.

She doesn’t quite remember when she falls in love with him – perhaps it is between Diona’s eyes glittering with green grass dew drops – tears that silently fall on her face as she looks up, looks up into the sun’s glaring beams and the sand digs into her knees, blood pooling from her face and neck and she smiles one last smile at Naevia, silent tears and a farewell that only sisters could know, secret smiles and whispered promises of freedom and safety escape their lips. 

It is a death knell that sends her into a spiral of demons and nightmares once the sword gleams and is tinged with blood, Diona’s body dragged away, the sand drinking in the blood like a greedy child would its mother’s milk as the arena roared in glee. 

Perhaps it is the curt words and gestures and yet, there is something about the Gaul that she finds interesting, like one would when making a new discovery of a secret passage, or something that would be like a child’s play.

(She has never known a childhood, she has known the mark of her Domina and to obey the words that lash out like agitated lizards against the pristine tile floors that dog her every movements, nipping at her heels and tearing at her skin.)

They end up falling for each other and it’s all foolish mistakes and helpless lovers’ quests from here on end.

iii.

She remembers the feel of the chains, shackles, remembers the feeling of tender smiles that turn into that of a murderer, of a monster - of anything but a man. 

She remembers being carted from one villa to another, spirit broken and weary and the ever present bitterness of her tears as she scrambles to make herself invisible, to somehow hide herself.

(She wishes she was a little girl once more, to hide in the folds of her mother’s clothes, small and meek and eyes filled with wonder and innocence. )

The mines are the gates of hell, the mountain itself seems to groan and moan, as if it was carrying the burden of its captives on its shoulders - _Like Atlas does the world_ \- and she wonders, if she is to die here, like a rabid, broken dog, spirit broken and hopes ripped to shreds.

(She thinks it is a hallucination, when he touches her and she whimpers because he is not – he cannot exist. She is dreaming and it is such a sweet dream, one that she would like to forever dream of. Instead, he reassures her, that it is real, that this isn’t a dream. )

She is safe in the arms of her brothers and sisters.

She learns, from the Undefeated Gaul, from their brothers and sisters East of the Rhine, from Nasir, from Mira.

She is taught by Oenomaus, a firm voice and gentle smile when she learns not to lower her guard, when to strike. 

She follows Spartacus and even watches Gannicus with his ways and learns from him as well.

She takes one demon down, on Vesuvius as Mira watches over them all from the afterlife, a tender smile on her face as she watches Naevia – a delicate flower that soon finds teeth and claws, and out from the ashes comes a she-wolf, snarls and love bursting in her throat, mingling with the ever bitter taste of hatred for Rome.

iv.

They fight and hunt and fight and she thinks she knows how to stand on her own two feet once more.

There are demons that lurk underneath her eyes but he is always there to kiss them away, to whisper words of comfort in times of darkness.

(She thinks she would be lost without him. He believes that she would be better with someone who would live, see her provided for, to live a quiet life, away from the warzone and carnage that they face.) 

They move their separate paths away from Spartacus, and it seems that victory is in store for them, but the gods have their own agenda and laugh as the Romans close in on them.

She sees Agron fall, and lets out a yell, hacking and slashing and yet it’s as if she can’t get closer, as if she’s drifting from Crixus, and she claws and claws, scrambles to move closer to her beloved.

It’s as if they’re in a terrible nightmare, and yet neither one can wake up.

Her throat is bared to a sword held by a Roman fuck, and yet she feels tired, weak – _it’s not Vesuvius, little girl. Your demons stand victorious over you once more_ and she wants to give up but she cannot.

She cannot leave Crixus. She refuses.

They will not take them – he is the Undefeated Gaul and she is Death and they will tear Rome to shreds.

(They had promised each other that, atop the cold winds and blizzard that overtook them, where quiet words and promises of a family, far far away from this madness awaited them) 

v.

She screams and sobs and it’s as if they’re back at the ludus once more, torn from each other’s arms and she feels pathetic, she wants to snarl, wants to kill each and every one of the Romans because they cannot touch him – she won’t let them, they cannot.

They cannot.

They will not.

It is the Undefeated Gaul that they have in their hands – he has not been bested, she will not allow it.

(Still they lock eyes and she knows, knows and she cries and he knows as well, and death is a welcoming thing, laughing and jeering at the two of them and the boy who swings his sword - _a mere boy to do the killing of a Champion_ who deals the final blow – she wants to rip free of her constraints, wants to snarl and lash out, she needs to protect, needs to know that she can remember how his lips felt against hers, soft and firm and everything perfect. 

She has to protect. (She needs to remember)

She cannot function. 

(It is a silent goodbye, one that she did not wish to say again. She thinks that her eyes betray her every time - first with Diona, now with Crixus. She cares too much and yet, it leaves her heaving and hurting and she wants nothing better but to take his place if she could.) 

All systems are set to reboot.) 

vi.

She is bloody and bruised and beaten but she is with Agron and she thinks that they may find a way to escape from this hellhole.

She hold vigil over him as he wakes – slowly but surely and her eyes are red, puffy and red and she trembles as it dawns on him.

They hold each other and think of Spartacus and everyone who they have left behind – they are alone for only a few precious moments.

(She is without sword or shield, no knife to protect her, only her teeth and nails. ) 

She tries to protect him, and yet they are ripped from each other – brother and sister they were now, bounded by vengeance and blood, bounded by their love of freedom. They knew that they would not survive the bitter end together and yet, they felt that they needed to try.

(It is what Spartacus would have wanted – to live each and every single waking moment as a free man or woman) 

She snarls and growls and lunges at them but yet they still come and take Agron away.

She is left alone with her demons and shackles that seem to leer and laugh at her, eyes watching her every movement.

(She wishes for Crixus and the tears fall absent word of command ) 

vii.

She is tossed away, wrapped up in a cloak of red as the Romans leer and jeer at her, like she is a canary and they are a bunch of cats, licking their lips to devour and to destroy. 

(They bruise and beat her, but not before revisiting her one last time as they may have done when she was carted from villa to villa) 

She is put on a horse, and is told to march towards King Spartacus. 

Her cuts and bruises are nothing as to what her soul was feeling – it’s as if there was a punctured wound that would never heal, not while she was living and yet she could not easily throw her life away – she had her brothers and sisters to protect, had a debt to Spartacus, had a vengeance for Crixus’ death. 

She is Death, as she falls to the dusty ground and her vision turns black, the sound of thundering feet like a cavalry of horses swirl around her head.

(She is safe.)

viii.

When she is struck down, she feels the world slip away in a myriad of colors, like water cascading down marble, or perhaps porcelain and she feels a warmth in her body.

When she opens her eyes, she is greeted by familiar faces – Varro, Mira, Oenomaus, a woman named Sura and countless others.  
She feels a tugging in her chest and it’s as if there is a fire whisking her away somewhere – she runs, runs as fast as she can and she barrels straight into a man – and there’s a fire in him too, warm and bright and it sings of ‘Home’.

She laughs as Crixus kisses her on the lips and she thinks , perhaps, that it is a sweet dream that she would not like to wake from.

(Little does she know that it takes Rome quite some time to smother out her flame, for she burns for not one person, but for two).


	2. Falling To Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vengeance and Death dog at her heels like obedient beasts. They save what they can, and the fire burns in each and every soul of the rebellion, young and old, women and child. It made no different.
> 
> They were to give a God a proper farewell and she is draped in red, blood, and the ever present memory of his kisses.

i.

The Romans dress her in red and she is to be courted around like a wounded animal, jeers and laughter stinging at her wounds.

(She remembers the blade cutting through his neck, remembering how it is not an easy task to cleave a man's head off of his shoulders, remembers the days spent training - clashing sword and kisses in return for earned lessons and success.)

There is an ever-present howl on her lips - her silence is that of defiance, of the burning hope that Spartacus has kindled since the day that the House of Batiatus fell, screams and blood seeping into the bloody thirsty cliff that it once stood on. She thinks that this mountain is no different, that the cold winds drink in her tears and sting her face as she rides on, vision distorted as her shoulders rack with sobs and yet she is tired, oh so tired.

(She wants to dream of wine and kisses and the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She wishes for a family that she will never have, of promises made to an empty wind that dances away from her fingertips.)

ii.

She remembers Mira, strong and resolute and she wonders how she had garnered her strength - to love and to not receive it, and yet - she sees now, that perhaps Mira was a mother to them all - she had struck the first blow , helped light the flame that had overtaken those who were in the ludus and she wonders what would have happened if Mira wasn't there to protect her, as they ran through the woods like rabbits running from a field of wolves.

(She knows now that Mira watched and listened and used that to her ability, snarling only when those who she considers dear to heart to be threatened. She wonders and marvels and she hopes to see her again - the woman who she can call a sister.) 

She knows now that perhaps that is why she learned so quickly from Crixus - she was to learn how to hone her own skills and claws, learn how to use her teeth to her own purpose. 

She was to learn how to protect, how to kill, how to love.

She understands now, why the sword that she swings is like a tether of her arm - she is it, and it is her and they are one.

(They were forged by Crixus' hands, gentle and firm and there is a fire within her that Spartacus sees, when she stumbles through into their arms and he cries with her, for Crixus was a brother to them , a man who had honor, who had died a death not deserved, to be struck down by a Roman shit who had tried to kill them all once before and failed miserably.) 

iii.

The knife is dull in color yet bright in sharpness as she runs her finger along its edge - it is when she was still a broken doll of a girl, a mere ghost. 

She remembers him entering, and it is nerves and worry that come pouring out of him like wine does out of a jug and she marvels, how such a broken thing such as her could have such a man like himself.

(He is kind and gentle and he listens to her, obeying her words to cease, for the tears prick against her skin and yet, she wonders, wonders if they are to be intimate once more, going past kisses and gentle caresses - or if the demons were to haunt her every step while she yet drew breath.)

They watch the fire together, wine singing merrily in their veins and they know the end is nigh for the gods have kept them in the shadows for quite some time and have not yet laughed at them, the damned that waged their war against Rome.

It is the sound of the ashes simmering and she hums as their lips meet, something that sends electric sparks through her and she thinks she can learn how to live once more, and perhaps they can escape and bring down the republic, perhaps. 

(She starts to hate the knot of uncertainty and fear that creeps into her when they are flanked by Caesar and Tiberius and Marcus Crassus and the gods laugh while she cries tears of blood and howls at the silent sky.) 

iv. 

They are one - he is a god and she is a simple girl - they are one by the judgement of the quiet night sky and the crackle of the fire, lips meeting lazily and it's as if time is melting away, confining itself to a few precious moments of peace in the midst of a war that is like a house of chaos - all casualties and no prejudice. 

They are one when they strike down the Romans together. 

She thinks he is of the wolves with his howls and screams of rage and perhaps she has some wolf blood in her as well- for she is hungry for Roman blood and yet, even she can see that their flames will die out as the blood soaked sword is pressed flush against her neck and it takes her everything not to scream in agony and try to cut through them all, try to save her beloved.

(She watches as his head falls to the ground and it drinks in his blood like a greedy child and her tears do nothing to freeze time and to whisk them away. The gods laugh instead, turning their ears away from her cries.)

v.

They did not think of starting a family, and yet when she looks at the little boy who is safe in his mother's arms, she cannot help but weep at the fleeting moment that they would not have, not in the hell that is war. 

(And yet he spins words as worthy as gold and sweet as the nectar from fruits and flowers that may have one day in the past adorned her hair and drenched her in light and purity and yet that felt as if it were a millennium ago)

The sky is their canvas and yet it is stained with blood and her tears and she cannot fix the hole that is in her chest, swallowing her whole as she scrambles to reach for him, to remember his face, his words - the sound of his voice starts to fade from her memory. 

She cannot afford to forget and yet it is nothing that she can do except learn how to breathe again and that isn't possible, cannot be possible because she survives with Crixus and he with her.

(They are each other's strengths and weaknesses, in this life or the next) 

They have both risen and fallen as one, learnt how to breathe together and had made a bit of heaven bloom in the shit that were their lives once the Romans took away everything.

(She thinks to Spartacus, of his wife whose death spurred the thoughts of revenge and vengeance, and she thinks she now understands the rage the courses through her veins as the flames climb higher and higher on his funeral pyre.)

The flames dance with the night air and she is nerves and bitterness but yet there is a cool wind that presses against her face and it is gentle like a kiss - it is the sound of laughter and the crows of joy as they prepare for one final battle against the Romans - she is surrounded by the ever-present memory of his arms wrapped around her, and her hands are firm and steady as she unsheathes her sword once more, to dance the dance of death with a laugh on her lips.

(For she fights not for herself, but to send more Roman fucks to the afterlife so that he can rip into them and tear their throats out as revenge for his death and the deaths of all those who fell before him and all those who would join him on the sands of the afterlife.)


	3. Slip Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their journey comes to an end, atop of rocks and ash and fire. He falls and yet she lives, the howl of his name forever on her lips as she strikes.
> 
> (Perhaps they will be reunited soon, on the shores of the afterlife)

i.  
They remember the taste of wine on their lips, the cool breeze of the evening air as they traced each other's bodies for what would be the last time, bear skins and stone as their bed and perhaps it is perfect.

It is the calm before the storm as he watches the fire slowly die out, breath calm and slow as Naevia sleeps in his arms and he thinks of a life far away from the shadow of the republic, perhaps, in the mountains where they would raise goats and have children, if they were to survive this hell.

(He does not expect to be struck down by a boy, a boy whose hands hesitate and who trembles before Death itself, who laughs in his face as he looks into Naevia's eyes one last time - he will wait for her, on the shores of the afterlife while she continues to lives , or so he hopes.) 

He is proud, his hand as steady as he guides his men and women, and he thinks this is what it means to be free - he has learnt from a man who was crowned a King by the shit heads known as the pirates and hailed as the Bringer of Rain by the Republic itself. He has slain Theokoles, helped destory the arena that he had been forced to build with his own two hands.   
(He thinks that he can take on Crassus, seize Rome and laugh in Spartacus' face when he hears of the tale of the Undefeated Gual storming into Rome and burning it to ashes.)

He does not expect the blade to be so warm as it slices through his neck, and he wonders if this is how it felt , whenever he sent someone off to the afterlife - to be struck down and beaten, to be turned into a bundle of nerves , leaking blood and static until it fizzles out and there is nothing left but a corpse to rot away into the earth. 

ii.

It is the sound of a child wailing, a piercing cry that cuts across the heavens while they regroup and reorganize - she is nerves and unsteady hands and she does not expect to be coddled or treated as a child.

(And yet she cannot help the tears from flowing when she sees the newborn, a breath of life in this shithole and she laughs bitterly as the little girl inside of her burns her dreams and hopes of having a family with him, with a man who is no longer of this world. 

She thinks as to how lucky the woman is, to cradle a light in her arms, to protect and love and perhaps they will survive this war and she can tell him tales of the brave men and women who rose to strike down the republic, to see that all chains and collars be removed and destroyed, that there is a chance, for a girl whose name was lost to rise again and reclaim it as her own.) 

She walks alone as she watches those yet living struggle to get a moment's rest before they move out at dawn, to barter and trade and she wonders if they are fools for even trusting Caesar's words and yet, she knows that look - the look of having something taken away from you, brutally murdered and the feel of someone else's cock inside of you, unwilling and pinned down and utterly powerless, and it is everything that you can do as to not scream and cry out because the night will not listen, the stars won't listen. You are left alone with the demons that are now birthing in your mind, in your womb. 

(There is nothing that you can do, except rise from the ashes and reclaim your name once more, little girl). 

iii.

When he falls, he remembers Naevia's screams and her face- but he does not remember the look of horror, only the burning love that her eyes seemed to pour into him, as if it were an elixir that would save his life from the fate that the gods have placed in front of him, that the Undefeated Gaul would fall to a little boy.   
His vision turns black but there is a symphony of blues and blacks and his breath escapes him as the blood pours out, and he thinks he is being pulled by his arms as he wakes once more, by an old tree that twists and turns - yet he does not know where he is, or if this is a trick of the eyes, that his is to wake once more.

He sits up and is greeted by a woman with piercing green eyes and black ebony hair, that falls to her shoulders in ringlets and there is a red threadbare ribbon tied to her thigh.

"You are Crixus, are you not?"  
(He thinks she is some sort of goddess, or perhaps, she is in fact a messanger from the gods for it is not possible that he is here - and yet, it was possible for there was a sword and a boy and his blood draining from him, he remembers that.) 

"You are - Sura, are you not? The wife of Spartacus, the man who has surely lost his fucking mind."

She laughs and nods and takes his hand, for she tells him that there are others who wish to see him, in this world, that of the afterlife.

"I must see Naevia -- is she here?"

"No, your woman still has much purpose to the gods, but do not fear, you will see her soon, once more." Sura speaks, quiet and warm and squeezes his shoulder in reassurance as she leads him to where his brothers were - he is in tears and yet he does not know if they are real or not, if they are of happiness or of grief but they are tears none the less and he falls to his knees as his family envelopes him in a warmth that he has gone without for quite some time.

(He sees Oenomaus and Mira, and Varro with his wife, and Barca and Pietros, and the stupid dog named Duro and yet he cannot stop his hands from trembling as they watch with Sura, watch as the rebels continue to fight and fight and get smothered out by the Republic, one by one.)

His eyes are trained on Naevia, his Naevia - _and yet he laughs because she is no one's , only her own_ and he watches as she lives, lives and fights and claws, Roman blood becoming almost a second skin as she whirls and he thinks he has taught her well, when she cleaves the heads off of the men with practiced ease. 

iv.

When she falls, she falls with her brothers and sisters - she and Saxa take down as many Romans as they can, aid Nasir in raids and defending those who cannot defend themselves, try to escape the Republic and its legions but they fall none the less.

(He watches as those East of the Rhine protect his Naevia, calling her sister and one of their own as they run and leave behind a blazing inferno of hope and death in their wake) 

When she falls she is drowning in her own blood as the blade slits her throat and she thinks of an oath that she has given to herself and to _him_ not too long ago -

__

> _I chose to walk by your side, in this life, and the one that follows_

She dies with a smile on her face, and her fire burns brighter then many others. 

When she opens her eyes, she is greeted by a woman whom she remembers faintly from Mira's tales as she recalls that day at the ludus when Spartacus fell and submitted to the wrath of Roman cruelty and words laced with multiple meanings.

(They had been reunited, but she was far gone from this world.) 

"We've been expecting you, Naevia." she smiles and there is something warm, something familiar about her that she cannot remember, but soon she sees Mira and is wrapped up in the familiar camaraderie of Oenomaus and his wife, Melitta and she is turned into a little girl once more when she sees Diona, and they laugh and cry and hug each other like sisters did in the days of innocence.

He sees her and he thinks that she is as radiant as the first time that he had laid eyes upon her, and he remembers a necklace that she had refused from him, such beauty that he had thought to acquire at the time but even now he sees that she does not need simple trinkets to make her beautiful - she is a goddess in her own right, one that will love and smite and forgive, one that does not forget.

Her names falls from his lips like a song does from a flute, and she turns her head and it's as if they can breathe again.

(They spend their days surrounded by their old friends, surrounded by a love that seemed to transcend the realm of the afterlife, and perhaps, they think that they are the gods themselves, to do as they please with the freedom that death brings with it.) 

They learn to breathe once more, one last time, before they slip away into the shadows - their names become mere whispers, become tales of men and women who ran with the gods themselves, who learnt from the wild dogs and the wolves how to fight and hunt, who learned from the cold harsh winter winds how to live and die, who used fire to burn down the arena and to send a message to the republic.

They soon became an enigma, a force that twists and turns its way so that even death cannot contain it - they are love and hope and freedom, they are retribution and vengeance and the damned.

They are the song birds and the wolves that run across the sky, painting it red and blue and orange, while the mighty Republic falls as the years march on by.

They live through various lives, meet each other in countless forms.

(They are the moon and the sun and the world itself could not hide from them)

They are free.


End file.
